Keep Me Sane
by 2DaughtersOfAthena
Summary: When Harry goes to prison, he finds it hard to maintain his sanity.


**Houses Competition. Head of House, Ravenclaw, Additional, 3228-3382 words, must feature a Next Gen character, WC: 3351**

 **AU. Harry is in prison. Albus is Ginny and Harry's only son. Muggledom.**

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"Hey buddy," I call through the glass to my son. Albus grins back at me, showing teeth I didn't see last time. In their last visitation, I'm sure Albus had been all gums and crying. He's getting so big now. Ginny is smiling too, but I know it's forced. Every moment we've spent together in my four-month incarceration has been forced - doing it for the sake of our marriage,and our child. We're civil, for Albus' sake. He can't know that this isn't normality, that seeing his father incarcerated isn't how his life should be.

Ginny picks up the phone beside the glass and gestures that I do the same. For a moment, I pause. I'm not entirely sure whether I want to hear her voice, to know that she's angry at me for something. Yet, here, your old life slips away so easily. Seeing her familiar face, listening to her voice that I know and trust, is a way to remind me of who I was. And that's good, right?

"How are you holding up?" she asks first, as she always does, a little breathlessly.

"I'm good," I reply. It's not the whole truth, though. I'm terrified. Albus tries to attract Ginny's attention with gurgles and soft whistling noises, which she gently shushes. _Must focus on one thing to stay sane; must focus on my son._ And the panic rushes in, all in one fell swoop. "Ginny, he's big – how did he get so big? His teeth! Was he okay? Did you use lots of bonjela, and calpol-?"

Ginny sighs heavily. "Jesus, Harry, calm down."

I swallow thickly. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to focus on Albus. Because, in focusing on him, I start to think about everything I am deathly afraid of. Most significantly, how little time I will get to spend with him during my time here. An hour of visitation every three weeks – it's enough to drive anyone mad, and to know that my family is growing closer together and growing apart from me. I won't hear about everything my son is going through, the things he won't talk to his mother about. About girls, or boys, and shaving. _Who will teach him how to shave?_

But then again, I didn't have my father around either. And even though my childhood could be considered somewhat miserable, I turned out okay in the end.

 _Says the imprisoned man_ , chimes the little voice in the back of my mind. The voice I hate.

Albus places a large baby hand onto the glass between us. A guard starts in our direction, but stalls at the sight of the infant. Ginny frowns and begins to extricate Albus from the glass, and I immediately know why. Who brings a child into a prison? This is no place for a child, but how else would I see my son? I've been here for four months, but I had already spent six months with Albus before coming here. I formed a bond with him.

But now?

What would I do if Albus was crying? _I have no idea._ And I guess I won't ever need to know, because I'm in here for life. How depressing a thought.

"Honey, take your hand off the glass," Ginny instructs our son, peeling his hand away from the panel again. "He's fine, doing great. Ron and Hermione have been staying over for when I need to escape for a little while."

I frown this time. _Escape_? Is that really how she views our son, as a burden? What I wouldn't give to get out of here and just hold him for even five minutes.

"What do you do when you need to _escape_?" I ask, thinking of drunken nights, slopping kisses, and throbbing music. She used to like clubbing – maybe that was where she was going. No doubt she was missing human connection, it wouldn't be unheard of for her to go out and find someone – to be with someone she deserves, someone who hadn't killed a man.

"I go running."

Her voice is flat, her tone clear. _It's none of your business_. Fuck, that hurts.

"Sometimes I go out and I find somewhere quiet, where I can just think and breathe and be Ginny Weasley – not Ginny Potter. Sometimes I visit the twins." She sighs and pulls Albus closer to her. A wave of envy burns through me. "They're close enough on the train."

Ginny's twin brothers, Fred and George, run a joke shop in a near-deserted part of London, just an hour away from where our house is. Near-deserted, I say, as it's quickly becoming a hotspot completely down to their roaring trade and flair for retail and invention.

"Cool," I murmur, not quite sure of what else I could say. Ginny seems at a loss for words, pausing in any speech. Albus looks between us, smiling, assuming a normality in such a conversation. "So, what else is going on?"

Talk is stunted for the rest of the visitation, which is frustrating but understandable. It's frustrating because it feels as though I should spend this time better, with my wife and my son. It's not as if I can say I've wholeheartedly enjoyed talking to her, despite my love for her. It makes things a whole damn lot more painful. Every time, even though the calls are filled with awkward silence, I wish that she doesn't have to go.

I even forgot to mention to her that I'm being moved from isolation to General Population – Gen Pop – tomorrow. And that's big. Whoever is in charge here has finally come to their conclusion and decided that they don't care that half of the inmates here are people I helped to imprison.

You see, I killed a man, but it wasn't just any random man. It was Tom Riddle, leader of the Death Eater mob, whose ideals were spread over the country and into Europe. Stupid name for a mob, but that's my opinion I guess – something else I will keep quiet about when I change into my orange jumpsuit tomorrow morning for Gen Pop. Over five years, I built up cases against thousands of criminals who were involved in Riddle's schemes. I handed all of my findings over to the police for them to arrest him and take down his entire organisation. But I didn't quiet bet on Riddle coming after me personally.

It had boiled down to a combat, in an insane turn of events. Riddle had been desperate, obviously fighting to kill for revenge. But I was younger, fitter, and faster. When Riddle reached for the gun, I snapped it from his loose fingertips, and the trigger practically slipped underneath my grip. Once. Twice. Three times. I almost think I did it out of fear and desperation too. Blood spilled from Tom Riddle's chest, soaking the alleyway in the red liquid. The gun fell from my hands, shaking as they were.

The few moments I took to breathe seemed like years – I didn't mean to kill him, didn't mean to, didn't want to – before I found myself whipping the phone from my back pocket. There was no use running, that would look guiltier. And I knew I was guilty. I had pulled the trigger, there was no denying that.

"Ambulance, fire, or police?!" shouted the answering woman over the phone. I was flustered, paused to think, confused. My mouth tasted like bile, head heavy, everything was heavy. I thought I was going to vomit. I wished I would die on the spot, but I had to take the heat for what I had done.

"Ambulance and police," I replied, sick to my stomach.

"What is the emergency please?" the woman requested. Obviously, she was pressing buttons on her end, contacting someone else.

"I've shot someone. He's dead."

Whirring noises had alerted me to the presence of the ambulance and police. Even being paces away, dragged off in handcuffs, I saw the gun being bagged up for evidence, and Riddle zipped up in a bag of his own.

The memory is like a nightmare you have when you're a kid. It rests behind your eyes, and you're not sure whether you were ever afraid or not. And you don't know if you would be scared if presented with the opportunity again. Would I kill Riddle again if I knew I would be taken away from my son? Would I go after Riddle again, if I knew that it would end like this?

Probably. Yes.

And that's what scares me the most.

When I was growing up, I never even thought about killing a man. I never thought about hurting someone, never thought about anything going further than harsh comments in the school hallways. Cussing, swearing, rude names. That's all childhood was. Here I am, in prison, a man's blood on my hands, and I don't even regret it. It's strange.

Ron says he would have done the same, but that doesn't exactly let me off the hook.

My change of jumpsuit is waiting for me on the chrome bars next morning, drill guard banging them to wake me up. Time to go.

Orange is _so_ not my colour.

Even as I'm entering the cafeteria, heads are turning. Obviously, my entering Gen Pop has not gone unnoticed. Great. Great, great, great. I swipe my hand over my mouth in nervousness, then pause. Can't let them see any type of weakness. _Don't reveal anything, Potter. You will not go down here, not before you can see your son grow up, no matter how far away he is._

Thinking of Albus, I make my way to the main counter, across the linoleum flooring, followed by searing glares. Several inmates make to stand up, but almost look as though they can't even be bothered to do that. All except for one, which was to be expected if I'm being honest with myself.

Draco Malfoy. Tall, blonde, a striking image of fury.

It takes him five seconds to cross the cafeteria, and less than that to knock me out.

I wake up in the infirmary. Everything hurts. One glance over my body tells me that Malfoy had a go at every inch of me he could, and that it was likely that no one interfered. Not that I expected anyone to intervene, not even a prison guard. That's not their style, especially in Gen Pop. Bruises mar my skin, cuts having barely healed, split open again in the restless sleep I just woke from. Fuck, I wish I had told Ginny yesterday – assuming that the visitation was yesterday. I don't know how long I've been out.

"Potter, you're awake," mutters the doctor, the door to the ward banging open. My neck aches when I turn to face him. "You've been down for about three full days. Your wife was contacted. You should be fine to go tomorrow."

I cough. "You're joking, how much damage did the dick do to me?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Three broken ribs, internal bleeding, multiple eternal lacerations, hairline fractures. I could go on, but you look a little sick."

"Yeah, thanks."

The doctor doesn't smile, but sets down my notes into the end of the bed.

 _DIE SCUM_

These are the words that decorate my cell when I return to it a day later, written in dark red liquid that I can only assume to be blood. That's a great sign.

Ginny's next visit doesn't come soon enough. Unlike before, I find myself aching to see her, aching to see my son. Thankfully, this time it's a proper visitation, across the table from the two of them. I know I've said it before, but the pain is unimaginable. What I think are dreams turn into nightmares – I can see them, and it's happy, but it's a nightmare because I can't hear them, I can't speak to them, can't touch them. I'm isolated inside myself.

"Harry, what happened to your face? Why are you wearing an orange jumpsuit?" she asks, adjusting Albus on her lap. It feels as though years have passed. He coos for her instead of me. Understandably. "Oh my god, is this Malfoy again?"

I shake my head, not sure if I trust myself to speak.

"Someone else?"

"It doesn't matter," I cut. I'm agitated, seeing Albus across from me. My face is in pain, as is the rest of me. Not surprising since the beatings didn't exactly stop after I returned from the infirmary six weeks ago. Slowly, surely, my life with my wife and son is slipping away from me, becoming more dream than a reality that I remember.

Ginny is gesturing to a guard, asking if I can hold Albus. I try to stop her, but my brain just won't function because I want to hold my son. More than I want to be with my wife, as awful as that sounds.

She's allowing, it – _oh Jesus, what if I've forgotten how to hold my son_ – Ginny is passing Albus to me, and suddenly I'm holding him, unable to believe it. He's confused, I can see it. He recognises me, only a little, touches my rough, bearded face, is flummoxed by the texture, obviously so used to Ginny's smoothness and her gentle touch. _Oh God, I can't do this._

Albus, I think, notices my distress and he starts to cry.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry Al," I try, cooing, breath leaving me, words almost failing me. He doesn't stop, and Ginny has to take him back. I stand up, hating myself, hating my life. Ginny can't even look at me. I turn and walk from the room, fists clenched, leaving the two of them in there. I miss my friends, I miss my life, I miss being able to be a father, I miss Ginny so much – my partner in crime no more.

Maybe things would be easier if I let myself rot in the cell, not see them, grow apart from them, let them grieve, and let them and myself move on into our new lives. This can't be our new reality, and I won't let this become normality.

I storm back to my cell, forcing my way through the threatening jumpsuit crowds. Someone starts towards me, but I hit him back, my fist to his throat. Violence, it seems, is a great outlet for whatever it is I'm feeling – and I don't even know what I'm feeling. The man goes down, whoever he is. Stares in my direction. I ignore them and stalk further through the metal corridors.

"Oi, Potter!"

"Fuck off," I retaliate, fury burning through me.

The next time Ginny comes, she's brought Ron and Hermione, and left Albus with Molly. She explains this to me in just the one sentence – _He's with Molly, he was restless, I couldn't bring him today, I'm sorry_ – and I understand what she's saying but I don't dislike it any less. It's a breath of fresh air to see Ron and Hermione though.

"Harry!" Hermione gasps, her eyes on my face.

Shit, I forgot about that.

Ron is staring too, as though he doesn't quite recognise me. Makes sense. I don't really recognise myself in the reflective spoons from the cafeteria. However, I've had time to adjust to the bruises and the cuts that cover me. Ginny spares her brother a quick glance, hushing him before he can speak. Hermione grabs his hand. Envy rumbles in the otherwise empty pit of my stomach.

"It's nothing," I assure her, trying to turn in the light that doesn't show off the damage of prison as much. No such luck, she still looks completely horrified. "Tell me about home, about everything. I need something good."

They all share a look. Something is going on.

Hermione coughs and nudges Ron.

"Well, mate," he starts, a nervous grin forming across his features. "We're pregnant."

My stomach sinks. _I should be happy, my God I should be so happy._ At the same time as this thought, there is the fear for my sanity. They can be with their child, they can be together. Jesus, it is not fair.

But it is fair. It is fair. I killed a man, I shouldn't be allowed to have my happy life.

"That's great," I smile back, albeit painfully. The others seem to ignore my terrible smile and take it for pain of my injuries. It's not, but I wouldn't dare tell them that. I wouldn't _want_ to tell them that I hate that they're having a kid, because I don't – not really – and that I wish someone else was in my place – I shouldn't wish that, because this all fell to me. "I'm really happy for you guys. How long have you known?"

Hermione grimaces.

"About a month."

A month? A _month_? I haven't seen anyone for six weeks, and… Jeez. Okay. They don't want to tell me their happy news. Why not? I've always been a part of their lives, been through everything with all three of them, sitting in front of me now. Ginny, my beautiful wife. Ron and Hermione, my best friends. I'm not really part of their lives anymore.

It stings.

"Cool, that's great," I smile, hating myself, and hating myself more for hating them.

I think that, because I said those words on the first meeting where they told me about their _little bundle of joy_ , my best friends assumed it would be a _super_ idea for them to give me updates. Not that I couldn't notice, the way Hermione was growing. Her belly was even more huge every visit, and then she just stopped coming. By that time, Albus was over a year old, and he could jumble sounds of words in what he must think are a sentence. To the rest of us, it's all nonsense. Maybe he believes himself the Bard.

Nothing gets easier.

One might think that being in prison for a long time makes things less difficult by day. That each beating is less painful, that the food becomes more interesting, that the visitations are less awkward. In fact, the opposite happens, and I appear to be stuck in one loop of monotony that is my abysmal life. Alternatively, you could call it spiralling out of control down a marginally depressive landslide. Whichever takes your fancy.

Time passes in strange ways here. Without a watch, I mostly guess what the clock is striking at any particular moment. I try not to count seconds, minutes, hours. Because if I count those, then I'm also counting days, and the weeks that pass between contact to those outside the grey stone walls. I don't even know that I'm that excited to see my friends and family anymore – they are reminders of the things that I don't have anymore. They are reminders of the life I lost.

When you kill someone, you don't consider that taking their life will also take away your own life. It doesn't really seem to come into the equation. Yet, here I am. Tom Riddle is gone, and I'm gone too. Just in a different way.

My son grows up without me. Fifteen years down the line, and he still visits, but mostly on his own.

Ginny is with another man. I'd like to say we agreed on it.

But it was fair. It would be unfair for her to save herself for a dead man, a lost man, me.

Despite my initial fears, Albus actually doesn't mind seeing me in prison. I see him more than I see anyone else. He tells me about his day, his weeks, about people he meets and people he thinks I should know. It's a comfort. Unlike the others, he doesn't tell me that life is moving on without me, he keeps me in the loop just about.

He reminds me of the good stuff, the human stuff.

I think, best of all, he keeps me sane.

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 **Thanks for reading!**


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